historical

Yesterday I got a lovely email from an artist in New Zealand asking permission to teach a class based on the technique I used in this piece which was published some years back.

I never thought of stitching layers of torn strips as any exclusive technique of mine (and I said so) but it was a very civilized gesture. I hope the students enjoy the class.

The first time I used this technique was on a piece that was about a yard long and only ten or so inches wide. I remember working on it while waiting in the car as my youngest son was taking his road test...ages ago. There was a lot of trepidation stitched into that one. Wonder where it is?

eye candy friday

Happy Friday!
Here's a site you should bookmark...but does it float 

 I was led to all of the following from there.

Gunta Stölzl

Art Hansen

Vangel Naumovski

WIP

Closing in on finished here, I've enjoyed working on this one with the simplest of techniques for me, hand  applique.

No trixie embroidery, no layering the threads, no crazed french knots - just a double strand of Sulky 12wt cotton in colors matching the fabric.

 Almost all the the fabrics are hand dyed damasks which has  tendency to creep away and fight the needle at every turn. The trick to needle turning this stuff is pins, pins and more pins and then stitches that are maybe an eighth inch apart. Sounds obsessive but the damask needles like butter.  I'd like to take this technique to a larger field for the next project.

Spring will be on us before you know and I'm daydreaming about the first dye fest of the year.
I have so much wonderful raw material at hand.

flings fly

In anticipation of spring this fling will be flying today.

It's been hanging around the studio since it was made and every time I unearth the thing it makes me grin so now it's going to make my mother and her friends at the nursing home smile and have a cackle.

groundwork

Just stitching on a passage thinking about the story.

I walked alone to school from day one. Across Main under the stern gaze of a crossing guard, down along  the dark side of Maple, past the front doors of the firehouse and the local newspaper and down a footpath through a dark wood.

There was a little wooden bridge over a brook and there were certainly trolls under that bridge but they could never catch me, I was running so fast. You had to hold your breath in the woods or they would be waiting when your feet hit the first board.

 At the end of the path the woods unclenched onto  the baseball field behind the school. It was full of cold sun with the block buildings squatting on the other side daring me come, full tilt.